Party at a Rich Dude's House
by lynne-monstr
Summary: America's throwing a Christmas party, and everyone's invited! But it's tough being a host when you're the only sane one in a sea of crazy nations. America plus Ensemble. Side pairings: America/Hungary Russia/Prussia, Austria/Switzerland.


Written for the exchange at Hetalia Holidays.

A/N: Title is shamelessly taken from a Kesha song, and I regret nothing!

* * *

"Dude, I did _not_ sign up for this."

America eyed the chaos that used to be his living room.

Lithuania was passed out on the couch, Poland and Denmark gleefully drawing on his face in brightly colored markers; Austria and Switzerland had driven off everyone in a ten foot radius thanks to their nonstop glaring and bitching at each other; Liechtenstein and Estonia were disassembling every electronic device in his kitchen; and to top things off, Prussia, France, and Spain were making what looked like lewd advances towards the Christmas tree.

"Actually, I believe you did," England responded, jolting him back to their conversation. "Or did the words '_hey guys Christmas party at my place_' somehow take on a new meaning when I wasn't looking."

Sarcastic ass. Before America could think of a witty response, a blur of laughter and energy slammed into them, almost knocking the drinks from their hands.

It was Italy. A very naked Italy.

Well, an almost naked Italy, if you counted the Santa hat perched jauntily on his head, tail end swinging merrily back and forth. With a babble of words too fast to comprehend (something that might have been an apology or perhaps an invitation to also get naked; it was hard to tell) he ran off again, leaving them both to stare in his wake.

England huffed and brushed a piece of imaginary dirt from his suit sleeve, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a suppressed smile, ruining the effect.

But there were more important issues at hand. Namely, defending his honor, and so America continued as if they hadn't just been interrupted by a bouncy, naked Italian. "Yeah, but—"

"You will put clothes on!" Germany, fast on Italy's heels, interrupted the (totally not lame) comeback, a pair of bright pink boxers clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

"But Germany, I'm wearing a hat, doesn't that count!" was the response, drifting across the room as they both dashed away.

America buried his head in the hand not holding his drink. How could he have forgotten the other nations were insane?

"You people are insane," he said, peeking out from between his fingers. Personally, he figured it must be the stress of not being American that did it to them, but decided at the last minute not to share that particular pearl of wisdom.

England only chuckled. "There's a reason I stopped hosting these things, you know," he confided, leaning in give a stiff pat to America's shoulder. "But, as you Americans are so fond of saying, 'suck it up.'" He spared a moment to shoot a grimace in France's direction (who was busy waggling his tongue at one of the tree ornaments) before adding, "How _he_ of all nations ever became associated with sophistication and class, I will never understand."

With a final clasp of America's shoulder, England wandered off in the direction of the bar area, muttering under his breath about 'that poor tree' and 'uncouth French imbeciles.'

It wasn't a bad idea, and America was about to follow him, when a disaster in the making caught his eye and he froze.

Said potential disaster was in the form of Austria, now making his way determinedly across the room, squeezing past various nations, violet eyes locked on the sleek laptop that held the collection of Christmas songs currently playing.

Before America could run interference, the music abruptly cut off, leaving the room in silence as everyone's conversations halted in surprise. Austria waved a dismissive hand from behind the computer, glaring sternly over his glasses. "As you were," he commanded, steel in his voice.

Across the room, Prussia slammed to attention, back going ramrod straight.

Without further warning, the music returned, the same festive holiday song, but now mixed with something that America could only describe as 'vaguely Euro-trashy.'

Nobody moved.

Peeking up from the screen, Austria looked around the room with a raised eyebrow. "What?" he challenged. "I like _all_ music. Now stop being idiots and have fun."

So they did.

* * *

America was standing in the formal dining room, surveying the long table set with plastic red plates, red utensils, matching red Solo cups (red was the color of Christmas!), and tiny place cards.

Correction. Tiny, defiled place cards. He looked at them in growing horror.

Spain (_Dirty Sanche_z)

Austria (_Rusty Trombone)_

China (_Angry Dragon)_

Tearing his eyes away before he could read anymore, he let out the dirtiest curses he knew, a guttural string of German that switched seamlessly into the deceptively smooth sounding but no less vulgar French insults (it wasn't all bayonets and camp sanitation he'd learned from Prussia back in the day). Then he cursed again, in English this time because that was still his favorite.

Crap, he was so screwed.

Scurrying around the table, he rushed to confiscate each little card. Secretly, he was pretty pleased to see that his own name had been crossed out and replaced with _Tony Danza_. That man was the boss!

Halfway through collecting the despoiled cards, a ruckus from the main room caught his attention, the faint strains of "Drink, drink!" drifting to meet his ears.

"Heroes don't hide," America muttered under his breath. "Hosts don't hide," he added, the other half of the evening's unofficial motto. Reassuring words non-withstanding, he was one step away from cowering in a corner— or a pillow fort, those were the best— and staying there until after New Year's.

Taking a deep breath, he hurried towards the sound.

There was a circle of people gathered in the main room.

Pushing past them, America saw the cause of the chanting. It was worse than he thought and he swallowed, suddenly wishing for some backup. Where was China and his wok of doom when a guy needed it?

Hungary, Canada, and Russia had four bottles between the three of them, and were apparently engaged in a drinking contest of epic proportions. To no one's surprise, Russia had the vodka. More startling was the two-fisting Hungary was engaging in, an open bottle of champagne in each hand; and he was absolutely shocked to see the normally quiet Canada about one-third of the way through an expensive bottle of bourbon that could only have come from America's supposedly locked liquor cabinet.

Draining the last of his bottle, Russia let out a loud bark of laughter and wiped his mouth with his free hand, sending tiny droplets of clear liquid flying. "There is no defeating mother Russia in a contest of drinking!" he bellowed. It would have been intimidating if he hadn't slurred every other word, all the while clutching the empty bottle tight to his chest like it was some kind of demented infant.

"Screw you, you commie dick!" came a shout from the crowd, sounding suspiciously like Prussia.

The slap of a high five sounded.

America's eyes flicked towards the sound and he deflated. Because if Germany was drunk enough to offer his brother encouragement, then any hope for quickly restoring order had just been dashed.

Russia hiccupped, looking more like a lost little boy than a world power. "Not communist anymore." Another hiccup. "Not a mother either," he mused to himself. His eyes scanned the crowd and picked out Prussia with startling alacrity, given the empty bottle he was holding. "So we are both wrong," he finished, seeming pleased with himself at the show of logic. "We can be wrong together?" he offered, a hopeful half smile breaking across his face.

It was creepy as all fuck, America thought.

Prussia didn't seem put off. "Sure, what the hell. But I hear one word about '_East'_ or '_exclave'_ and I'm gone. Got it?"

The smile grew. "Deal."

To America's intense relief, Russia exited the circle, still clinging to the empty bottle. He was quickly joined by Prussia, and as they walked in the direction of the guest bedrooms, it wasn't clear if the arm they slung around each other was in camaraderie or to hold each other up.

He turned back to the remaining two members of the impromptu drinking contest. Deciding to deal with the familiar first, he concentrated on Canada, and the bottle of expensive bourbon that was meant to be sipped, not chugged like some frat boy at a rush party.

"Whoa, Canada, is that from my private stock? Party foul."

Canada smiled, the happy smile of the deeply inebriated. But before he could answer, France popped his head into the circle, leering in a way America knew didn't bode well for anyone who wasn't France. Or more specifically, for anyone whose house was currently host to a Christmas party.

"Well, well." His voice came out in a sing-song and America cringed. "Look what we have here," France continued, head craning upwards to glance at something he was holding above all their heads.

America looked up. And wished he hadn't. Quickly, he stumbled back, hoping no one had noticed. Because it was mistletoe. Of course it was. And it was directly over himself.

And Hungary.

Shit, he was so dead.

Hungary shoved both her bottles at Canada and France respectively, and ran her eyes greedily up and down America's form.

He gulped, now apprehensive for an entirely different reason. Hungary's shiny, dark green dress clung in all the right ways, and the slit that ran from ankle to thigh didn't do anything to detract from the image.

Strong hands reached for the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward, and America decided, _What the hell, it's Christmas_, and eagerly leaned forward to meet her in a kiss. Snaking out an arm, he wrapped it tight around the small of her back, and was surprised when his hand touched not the smoothness of fabric, but warm, bare skin. He felt, rather than saw, Hungary's lips curl up into a devious smile against his own, and that was all the encouragement he needed. _No guts, no glory_, he told himself, and darted his tongue out to lick along her lips.

Instantly, they parted and with a muffled groan, America deepened the kiss, tongue sliding along hers, tasting the remnants of the champagne she'd been drinking. Damn, what a woman. Just as a bare knee nudged its way between his legs, there was the sound of someone's throat clearing and a brisk tapping on America's shoulder.

He jerked back and they reluctantly broke apart.

"Get a room, you two!" It was England, waggling his impressive eyebrows, France at his side.

France, for his part, was grinning proudly at them, one of Hungary's discarded champagne bottles dangling loosely from his fingers. The mistletoe was sitting innocently in the lapel of his burgundy velvet blazer.

How France managed to pull off wearing velvet, America had no clue, but had to grudgingly admit that it looked good.

Glancing over, he noted with disappointment that Hungary had wandered off. Oh well, he supposed, all good things must come to an end, even on Christmas. Now that the action was over, the rest of the nations had dispersed as well, off to get more drinks and more appetizers, and back to dancing to Austria's strange techno-Christmas music. Which reminded America that he hadn't seen Austria in a while. But the music showed no signs of stopping, so he didn't worry about it.

* * *

All in all, the rest of the evening was progressing surprisingly well.

Things got a bit dicey when Belarus showed up and began inquiring after her brother, seeing as the entire party knew that Russia was – ahem – _'partying like it was 1949'_, as someone not-so-delicately put it. But she merely poured herself a shot of vodka from the bar area along the wall and grabbed Estonia with the other hand, and they both cheerfully headed to the side of the room that had been claimed as the dancing area, to the relief and surprise of everyone.

Which is why America was caught completely off-guard when the Christmas tree, in all its height and glory (the top brushed the ceiling) caught on fire, sparks spraying out from the base of the tree.

"Oh look, fireworks!" China shouted cheerfully.

"Who's got a towel!" America yelled out.

"Here! America!"

It was England, and America didn't spare the time to wonder why on earth he had one with him, just caught the bright red towel (Christmas colors!) one-handed and pounced on the fire, unplugging the tangle of cords and smothering the flames.

The room became noticeably dimmer without the colored lights, but crisis averted, so all was well. He made a note to self that apparently plugging power strips into power strips was a no-no.

Clapping his hands once, America looked around at the assortment of confused, startled, and bewildered faces. "Whew, that was close. So, dinner anyone?"

That seemed to do it, and soon everyone was headed in the direction of the dining room. America stopped by the kitchen first, proud of himself for remembering not to forget the extra napkins. He opened the door to the small walk in pantry. And immediately closed it again.

It was too late, the image already seared into his mind. But hey, he found Austria! And a shirtless Switzerland, and that was way more information than he needed to know.

England's voice drifted in from the other room. "America, do you care to explain why my name is written as '_Tea Bag_?'"

There was only one thing to do at this point. If you can't beat them, join them.

"Because that's what I'm getting you for Christmas!" he called out, abandoning the napkins to make his way towards the dining room and rejoin the fray.

* * *

End note: For those of you who don't have silly sex slang terminology memorized, Urban Dictionary defines the act of 'tea bagging' as follows: "To insert one's nuts into the mouth of another (of either gender), usually while they are sleeping."

If you're curious about dirty sanchez, rusty trombone, angry dragon, or tony danza (the sex name, not the person), both Urban dictionary and google are your friend. But don't say I didn't warn you.


End file.
